


A Little Rain Never Hurt

by FlourishBelle



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Cliche, First Kiss, Fluff, Kissing in the Rain, M/M, Mystrade fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-21
Updated: 2015-08-21
Packaged: 2018-04-16 09:54:37
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,485
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4620930
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FlourishBelle/pseuds/FlourishBelle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Lestrade gets caught in a rainstorm, Mycroft and his umbrella save the day.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Little Rain Never Hurt

**Author's Note:**

> A quick story based on Meet Cute Prompt #236 from meetcuteprompts.tumblr.com! Enjoy!

It’s one in the morning so of course, the tube wasn’t running. And because the tube wasn’t running, naturally, it started to pour, and Lestrade was fuming. An exhausted anger haunted him; one that had worked tirelessly on tying his nerves into a series of sloppy knots and kinks throughout the day, and left him on a low simmer now that he could finally go home. As he stood in the lobby of New Scotland Yard contemplating the downpour, he felt the mud seeping through to his socks, watched it harden to his jacket, felt his shoulder smarting where it connected with the concrete. It was a bloody awful day. He finally decided to walk. Unlikely that he’d find a cab this time of night with some kind of driver that wouldn’t set him back to boil. He clenched his jaw, and simply to spite his anger, he trudged through the rain toward home.

After ten minutes of walking through the icy onslaught, Lestrade’s anger hadn’t dissipated but multiplied, and now, almost entirely defeated, he ducked into a nearby shop for a brolly. It felt like a surrender as his muscles eased into the warm bath of comforting coffee aroma. He wanted to be the martyr to this terrible day, going down in flames with the righteous anchor he brandished as his dying crest. And yet, with a good, strong cuppa and the promise of a dryer walk home, it was hard to feel anything but sleepy. He paced the aisles looking for an umbrella, hope slowly weaning as the shelves offered not a single one. He finally found the bucket where they were usually housed by the door vacated and sighed in further defeat.

  
Tea in hand, Lestrade ventured back outside, sitting on the sidewalk beneath the shop’s striped awning, and surrendered to the night, waiting for the storm to pass. It was only a few minutes before he noticed the sleek, black car parked slightly down the block. Among the vehicles of everyday folk, it seemed dangerously out of place. The fox in the chicken coop. Yet, even with his awareness sharpened, the voice surprised him.

  
“Can I offer you any assistance, Inspector?” Even in the wee hours of the morning, it was impossible for Mycroft to look anything but completely put together, managing to annoy him even further.

  
“God you scared the shite out of me! What are you doing out here at this hour?”

  
“One could ask the same of you. I ask again, can I offer you any assistance?” The elder Holmes brother proffered one hand as the other leaned on a dry, crisply folded umbrella. Lestrade stubbornly refused the offer for help, and awkwardly struggled to his feet alone, if only to further prove the point.

  
“No, thank you. I’m fine.”

  
“Which is obviously the reason why you find yourself covered in mud, sitting on the ground outside of a shop in the rain, at 2 in the morning?” He had a point there.

  
“I got out late after everything that happened today.” He shot Mycroft a look, as if Sherlock and John mistakenly tackling an old priest to the ground earlier was his fault. He should have known better than to try to intervene by now. It was almost laughable now, thinking back. “I got out late, figured I’d walk but decided to wait out the storm.”

  
“A wise choice, indeed. May I offer you a ride home, Inspector Lestrade?” It seemed a strange offer, even given the changes in their relationship of late. While they merely brushed shoulders at shared catastrophes involving Sherlock at first, they had now come to rest at a tenuous friendship that consisted mainly of shared information about the consulting detective, and side-long glances that lasted a little longer than necessary. Never had Greg been in Mycroft’s car without the express purpose of trading information, and now the thought seemed almost uncomfortably personal.

  
“Thanks for the offer, but I think I’ll walk.”

  
“It’s supposed to rain into the morning, I’m afraid. Though, it may help wash the mud off.” A small smirk accompanies a heated glance.

  
“Ha-bloody-ha. I’ll be fine, Mycroft. Thank you.” He brushes past and out into the rain. He makes it only a few steps before the pattering raindrops suddenly stop. A black umbrella replaced the night sky over his head.

  
“Then if you insist on walking, Inspector, I’ll just have to walk with you.”

  
“And if you still insist on calling me Inspector, Mycroft, I may have to clobber you.” The smile they share is a fond one, and they each laugh quietly, unaware of the ice finally breaking.

  
“Fine, as you see fit...Gregory.”

  
“Better. See? You’re a fast learner.”

  
“I tend to be a tad more intelligent than Sherlock would give me credit for. Shocking, I know.” Lestrade laughs again.

  
“Speaking of my brother,” he gives the detective an up-down, slow and suggestive “Can I correctly assume that he has something to do with the state of your clothing?”

  
“And I thought the British government knew all?” He flashes a wry smile.

  
“I occupy -”

  
“A minor position, yeah, yeah. Heard that one before.” Mycroft gave an easy laugh, despite himself. It was hard to ignore the small, joyful crinkles at the corners of his eyes as Mycroft smiles. Lestrade suddenly finds himself wanting to see them more often, wanting to be the cause of them. He goes on. “Well, we finally found the black market art dealer we’ve been looking for. Sherlock took after him, daft git, and John went after him. I chased them down, Sherlock slipped up, took down an old priest and now, somehow I’m the one left with the bad karma! Took me a good few minutes to get the feisty old bugger off him.”

“Well, that sounds about right. I must offer you the apology he never will. I do try to keep an eye on him, but you see how well he takes it.” They continue down the block as the rain settles into a steady pattern, falling softly on the sidewalk. If they brush arms a few times, they blame it on the small space, and each take their small joy in it.

By the time they reach Greg’s flat, they’ve exchanged enough stories and laughs that it felt like no time at all. In such a short distance, he feels that he has learned so much of the intricate tapestry of Mycroft’s life, that before he knew only strands. As he filled in more pieces of the many he never really knew before, Greg burned to know more, and share more in kind. They could have done laps around London, talking late into the night, or at least, Lestrade wishes he lived farther away. The intimate island in which they shared freely seems to shrink away until gone completely, as Mycroft folds up and shakes out the umbrella.

  
So much to say, and yet nothing comes to mind.

  
“Thanks,” Greg manages, “for walking me home.”

  
Mycroft smiles warmly, “It was my pleasure.” For a moment, the silent warmth of the lobby cocoons them, neither of them willing to break the quiet, to unsettle the short space between them.

  
“Gregory it’s been a most pleasant evening, but unfortunately, it’s nearing 3:30. I have to go.” His words seemed wrought with true regret.

With a simple nod, Lestrade agrees, “Thanks, again.”

  
“I do hope you’ll...um...consider me, next time you have to walk home.” Hope blossoms brightly in Greg’s chest, warmth spreading through him once again.

“Will do.” He smiles. There’s still something there. A reluctance to say goodbye, in hopes that something else will happen. “Good night, then.”

  
“Good night, Gregory.” Mycroft turns and heads out into the rain, and yet, Lestrade is planted in one spot, playing with his key. He glances back to the flat, and out the front door. Back, and forth. He holds tight to the hope in his chest, heart still beating quickly.

  
It is hope that propels him out the front door and into the rain. It’s the warmth in his veins that reaches out for Mycroft’s jacket, making him turn. It’s a few seconds of insane courage, of pure want, that finally brings Greg’s lips to Mycroft’s in the downpour.

  
While at first tentative, the grows like wildfire, consuming them both. Mycroft brings an arm to circle Lestrade’s waist pulling him closer, a hand behind his neck to encourage. They stand there for a moment after, foreheads pressed together, neither noticing the way the rain has soaked them to the bone. Neither could care.

This moment is electric, full of the potential for the future, content with this summation form the past. Thinking of all the things that can be, Lestrade whispers, “Do you wanna walk me home tomorrow?”

  
Weaving their fingers together, Mycroft smiles. “Wouldn’t miss it for the world.”


End file.
